


This Is All I'm Asking For

by cwb



Series: Just Like That [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Chicago (City), Christmas, Christmas Tree, College, Established Relationship, First Christmas, Hand Jobs, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Snow, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 14:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17164016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/pseuds/cwb
Summary: Sherlock and John prepare for their first Christmas living together.





	This Is All I'm Asking For

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas!
> 
> This story is part of the "Just Like That" series and takes place one year after the end of "I Just Want You for My Own." When we last left off, Sherlock and John were home for their winter breaks from different universities, spending much of their vacation in Chicago. This story finds the boys finally living together and attending the same school.

Sherlock blinked into the late morning sunshine falling across the bed, just this side of awake. He stretched, yawned, rolled over. The other side of the bed was empty, so he came up on his elbows and listened. No creaking floorboards, no gush of water in the pipes, no tapping of keyboard keys. Sherlock fell back on the pillows and reached for his phone.

_Where are you? SH_

_It’s a surprise. Be back soon._

_Bring me a coffee? SH_

Sherlock waited, watching the phone for the telltale sign of typing, but John didn’t answer. Sherlock stretched again, too intrigued by what John’s surprise might be to fall back asleep, and planted his bare feet on the chilly hardwood floor. The view outside their bedroom window was of low cloud cover and snow, big fat wet flakes just beginning to fall.

Their apartment’s tiny bathroom was filled with steam when he turned off the shower and reached for the towel he’d draped over the radiator before getting in. He scrubbed it through his hair and over the mirror before wrapping it around his hips and pulling it tight across his waist. He listened again for signs that John was back. Nothing.

Back in their bedroom he pulled on a pair of Levi’s and straightened the quilt over the bed, fluffed up the pillows and picked his towel up off the floor. He was on his way back to the bathroom when he heard the front door to the building, one floor below, slam shut and then the thump-thump-thump of footsteps coming up the stairs. He cocked his head, listened. It sounded like John, but slower, heavier. He heard something bang against the wall of the landing and a muffled curse. The slow, heavy thumping stopped outside their door, and Sherlock heard a set of keys fall to the floor and another curse.

He smiled. John.

“Hold on, I’ll get it,” he called. He opened the door as John was fumbling his keys back into his coat pocket.

“Hey!” John was pink-cheeked and breathing hard, snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes and on his knit hat. Everything from the crooked grin on his face to the pleased quirk of his eyebrow was the embodiment of mischief. John was hanging on to something just out of sight of the door, so Sherlock leaned forward and peered out. Propped up against the wall was a tree, a Douglas fir, nearly seven feet tall, freshly cut and filling the narrow hallway with the scent of pine.

“You got a Christmas tree?”

“Yup. Sorry, couldn’t manage coffee at the same time.”

Sherlock moved out of the way as John finagled the tree into their apartment and through to the living room. “Can you get that bag in the hallway? It’s a tree stand.”

Sherlock stood still for a moment and gaped, then grabbed the bag and closed the door behind him.

“You got a tree,” he repeated.

John leaned the tree up against the wall and pulled off his gloves. He was still grinning. “I did. Do you like it? I thought it would be good, you know, our first Christmas in our own place, having our own tree?”

Sherlock nodded.

“I mean, I know we’re going home for the winter break in a couple of weeks, so we won’t actually be here for Christmas,” John continued, “but I figured we should decorate and enjoy the run up, right?”

Sherlock nodded again.

“Hey, French fry, you okay?” John looked slightly less delighted, a bit more concerned. He dropped his coat and hat on the coffee table and came over to where Sherlock was still standing by the front door. He put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, looked up at him, cocked his head.

Sherlock shuffled forward and wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pressed his bare chest against John’s still outside-cold sweater. “I love it. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this myself. Of course we need to have a tree. Oh!” he said, stepping back, eyes wide. “We need ornaments, too, and lights! We need a tree skirt, a star, garland. Do we need garland? Hmm, maybe not garland. White lights or colored lights? Blinking lights, I think.”

“Whoa there, you, one step at a time.” John ruffled Sherlock’s damp hair and leaned in to kiss him. “I’m glad you like it. Finish getting dressed and we can go get coffee and pick up some stuff for the tree. I’ll get the stand set up.”

Sherlock dressed quickly and pulled a scarf and hat from one of the hooks on the back of the door. Bundled up against the damp and cold, they headed away from campus, down quiet side streets lined with sleepy-looking brownstones and snow-covered cars. Here and there a resident was out with a shovel, clearing the steps and sidewalks. They walked until they reached the intersection with a Walgreens on one corner. It wasn’t Sherlock’s first choice for Christmas decorations, but options were limited on a Sunday afternoon, and he was eager to make the tree their own.

An abundance of lights would help compensate for the generic decorations they’d find at a national drugstore chain, and he figured they could add nicer ornaments to the tree in the next few weeks. Maybe he’d even ask Mrs. Hudson to pack up some of theirs and mail them to him. Pity he hadn’t thought of it when they’d been home for Thanksgiving two weeks ago, but then he’d had no idea John was going to bring home a tree.

He stood in the Christmas decoration aisle and contemplated the array of strung lights on the shelves. He knew, on some level, that he was taking longer to pick out lights than was really necessary, but this was his first tree with John, in their first apartment together, and he wanted it to be right. More than right. He wanted it to be perfect.

“Sherlock, just pick,” John said, shifting the red plastic shopping basket to his other arm. “It’s going to be great no matter what.”

“Which do you prefer?” Sherlock asked, holding up two boxes of lights. “Blinking colors or solid white?” He could feel the crease at the top of his nose furrowing, his eyebrows drawing tight.

John plucked the colored lights from his hand and grabbed two more boxes of the same off the shelf. “Colored lights, definitely.”

“You’re sure?” Sherlock thought back to the Christmas trees they’d had growing up. Both Mrs. Hudson and the Watsons had always used colored lights.

“Yup. Come on, what else do we need? I’ve got balls; red, green, silver, gold, and blue.”

“You have blue balls?”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock snickered and wandered farther down the aisle.

“What are you looking for?”

“Red ribbon. Mrs. Hudson always does this thing with ribbon curling around the tree. I’d like to replicate the effect on our tree.”

John reached for some tinsel and Sherlock pulled his hand back. “God, no. No tinsel, John.”

John shrugged and kept walking, then grabbed a box of miniature candy canes off the shelf and tossed it in the basket.

They stopped at a favorite coffee shop on the way home, stomping slush from their boots and brushing snow off their coats as they dumped their shopping bags at an empty table and went to the counter to order.

Seated, they bumped knees and inhaled the steam rising off their lattes, blew across the surface of their cups, took slow, warming sips. Around them, students tapped away on their laptops and wrote in notebooks, settled in for an afternoon of studying.

Sherlock scooted his seat closer to John’s and leaned against his arm. “Where should we set up the tree? I think the sunroom would be best, but I wouldn’t be opposed to putting it on the wall between the bathroom and bedroom.”

John pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling, eyes flitting back and forth as he considered. “It would look great in the sunroom, but it’ll take up most of the space, so we’ll have to move the armchairs.”

Sherlock nodded, conjured up the floor plan of their apartment in his head, measured and configured. The apartment was a small one bedroom, basically a rectangle with a sunroom stuck on one end. It was typical of Chicago courtyard buildings, and they’d been lucky to find an apartment on the end, instead of in the darker interior of the building. The sunroom had been the selling point for both of them, not much more than a small annex off the living room, but filling the apartment with light and giving it the feel of a much larger space. The previous tenants had used the room for plants and a floor-to-ceiling, carpeted cat house.

Sherlock and John, having no patience for plants and no time for a pet at this stage of their lives, had found two armchairs (metal and leather for Sherlock, red upholstery for John) at a used furniture shop and put them in the sunroom over a threadbare rug. Over time, almost a year now, they had added stacks of books, their chemistry and medical journals, and a short, squat table they’d taken from Sherlock’s house to sit between their chairs and hold their cups and plates.

“If we push the futon back we’ll have room for the chairs in the living room,” Sherlock said.

“We might have to move the coffee table.”

“That’s fine.” Sherlock bounced his leg under the table and bit his lower lip.

John placed his hand over Sherlock’s and gave it a gentle shake. “It’s a Christmas tree, babe, not a nuclear bomb. You’re taking this pretty seriously.”

Sherlock finished his latte, pushed the cup away from him, and took John’s hand in both of his. “John,” he said, ever so patient. “This is our first Christmas together, really together, in our own place. It all starts here, now, establishing our own traditions. It has to be right.”

John licked his lips and shifted in his chair, closer to Sherlock. “Okay. Listen to me for a sec, yeah? I think you might be taking this a bit too seriously. Not that it isn’t serious, because it is, of course it is.”

“John.”

“Hear me out. Do you love me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I love you, too. And that’s what Christmas is about, right? We could wrap that tree in toilet paper and it would still be you and me together, right?”

“Toilet paper?”

“Just as an example.”

“A bad one.”

“We’re not really going to wrap the tree in toilet paper. We’re going to wrap it in lights and red ribbon and hang blue balls all over it and put presents under it, and that’s a good start. We’ve got years to build on tradition. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“The building and eventual destruction of an ancient civilization is hardly a good analogy for our relationship, John.” John let out a long sigh and shot Sherlock a look. “I do take your point, though.”

The snow was up to their ankles by the time they got home, and the apartment was dark and filled with the scent of their tree, sharp and wintry green. They flicked on lights as they shed their outer layers, set their bags down, and got to work rearranging the furniture.

“It’s bigger than I realized,” John said, snipping the twine that held the branches tight. “Maybe I should’ve bought something smaller.”

“Nonsense. It’s perfect.”

Sherlock helped John lift the tree into the stand, then held it still while John crawled under the lower branches and tightened the screws into the trunk.

“Give it a shake, is it secure?”

“Seems like it.”

John popped up from underneath and stepped back a few feet. “It’s a bit crooked but if we angle that side toward the front windows it should be okay. Ready? Tell me if it needs adjustments.”

John lifted the tree into the sunroom and rotated it this way and that per Sherlock’s instructions. When Sherlock gave the final okay John stepped back to Sherlock’s side and said, “Well?”

“Perfect. Let’s decorate it.”

Sherlock took his time, stopping several times to make sure the lights were evenly distributed across the branches, then twisting and winding the wide, velvet ribbon into place before he let John start hanging the colored balls. Sherlock stood back and supervised the process, stepping forward once in a while to move an ornament up or down a couple inches, or to swap one color out for another.

“Do you want to do this yourself?” John quipped after Sherlock had tweaked the placement of yet another ball.

“Not at all. You’re doing reasonably well.”

John laughed and hung a blue ball. “Gee, thanks. That's high praise coming from you.”

Plastic wrappings and empty boxes littered the living room by the time they were done. Sherlock kicked them out of the way as he turned off the lamps they’d turned on when they came home. He wanted to see how the tree looked with its lights on, wanted to see how the space looked lit just by the tree.

“Okay, plug it in.”

Sherlock heard the rustle of the tree’s branches as John brushed behind it in search of an outlet. In a burst of light, the tree came to life, red and green and blue and yellow twinkling on and off, reflecting in the windows of the sunroom, casting John’s face and hair in Christmas-themed hues.

“Oh.”

“How does it look?”

“Come here, come look.”

John made his way back to Sherlock and stood by his side. “Oh, yeah. That’s really nice.”

“Isn’t it? But we forgot a star for the top. I could run out now, I could—”

“No, let’s not go back out. It’s freezing and wet. Let’s order a pizza and stay in.”

“It needs a star, though,” Sherlock said, bending down and picking through the empty bags as if a tree-topper might magically appear.

“I have an idea. You order the pizza and I’ll make the star.”

“How are you going to that?”

“You’ll see.”

John wasn’t done by the time Sherlock had finished placing the order, so he pushed his phone back into his pocket and went into the kitchen, a small, impractical nook with an island that separated the kitchen appliances and counters from the living room. He pressed up against John’s back and looked over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“No peeking. Almost done.”

“Is that last night’s Thai food container? Did you take that out of the recycling bin?”

“Ssh. No peeking.”

Sherlock peeled away from John and made a great show of picking up all the discarded bags, wrappers, and empty ornament containers scattered around the living room. John’s requests that he do more to clean up around the flat had become less suggestive and more demanding in the last few months, and Sherlock was trying, he really was. He was better about hanging up his towel after showers now, about keeping his stack of books and notes in one pile instead of scattered all over John’s things, as well. He made the bed if he was the last one out of it, and took out the recycling on Tuesday mornings because he left for classes earlier on Tuesdays than John.

It was one of the few adjustments they’d had to make after moving to Chicago together. The first few months had been bliss, both of them floating on the cloud of their cohabitation, setting up house with used furniture and shared closet space, organizing kitchen drawers and filling the fridge and cabinets with their favorite foods. Sherlock took to domesticity with John like a house on fire. He collected takeout menus and stored them in a box on the kitchen counter, switched to John’s detergent so they could do their laundry together, had Mrs. Hudson send a box of utensils and gadgets and decorative touches she could spare from the house.

John had come prepared with castoffs from home, as well, with a battered blue and green quilt for the bed and some pillows for the couch that Mrs. Watson had earmarked for charity, some old Tupperware containers and a stack of bath towels, a set of mixing bowls and a magazine holder Sherlock remembered from when they were little kids. Some of what had been contributed to the apartment was never used (the mixing bowls, a hard-boiled egg slicer with rust in the hinges, a single nutcracker), but they’d learned along the way what they needed and slowly turned the Hyde Park apartment into home.

But there were those things that hadn’t gone as smoothly, too, like Sherlock’s towels on the bathroom floor and John coming home in the evening to say he’d already grabbed something to eat after class. After about a month of towel-on-the-floor-huffing and missed-dinner-sulking, Sherlock sat John down in their chairs in the sunroom on a Saturday morning, their bare feet tangling between them, and suggested they talk openly about their expectations and grievances.

The list wasn’t long and the conversation had ended with reassurances that each would do better to be mindful of the other, and then they’d gone back to bed and had mind-blowing sex, so all-in-all, Sherlock was a big fan of setting things straight before they got out of hand.

“Thanks for clearing that stuff up, French fry,” John said as Sherlock stuffed the trash into the bin under the sink.

“Can I look now?”

“You can look now.” John held up a flat silver star about the size of his hand, fingers splayed. He’d washed out the aluminum container from last night’s dinner, cut out a five-pointed star, and used red and green Sharpies to write “JW ♡ SH 2017” in the center of it.

Sherlock blinked at the homemade tree-topper. “It’s perfect. Let’s put it up.”

John taped the Thai food container star to the top of the tree while Sherlock set up a Christmas channel on his music app, then John opened a bottle of wine while Sherlock washed out two glasses and dried them on one of the cherry patterned dish towels John’s mother had given them. The pizza came and John went downstairs to pay for it while Sherlock carried plates and napkins into the living room and set them up on the slightly wobbly coffee table.

They fell into a comfortable silence as they ate, Sherlock snagging John’s pizza crust and sipping at his wine, John debating whether or not he should save the last piece of pizza for later, and when they were done, John pulled out his backpack and started studying for his biology exam and Sherlock opened his laptop and did research for his final chemistry project.

The hours ticked by, the night outside silent except for the occasional slushing sound of a car skidding its way down the unplowed street, the downstairs door slamming shut as a neighbor came or went, the hiss of the radiators as the heat gurgled on. Icy snow pelted the windows when the wind picked up, sheets of heavy flakes swirling every which direction under the street lamps.

Some time later, Sherlock heard John brushing his teeth and moving around in the bedroom. He clicked his laptop shut and looked around him. John had put his textbooks away, had tidied up the pizza box, plates, and glasses. He guessed at the time (12:15) then checked his phone (12:18).

“John?”

“Yeah?” John appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, stripped down to his boxer briefs, a T-shirt to sleep in hanging from one hand.

“Let’s sleep in here tonight. We can open up the futon.”

“With the Christmas lights on?” John gave him an indulgent smile and tugged his T-shirt over his head.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. We have to move the coffee table.”

John had transferred the pillows, quilt, and an extra blanket from the bedroom to the living room while Sherlock got ready for bed, and was stretched out on the futon when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. The tree lights flickered on and off, just catching John in the reach of their glow. Sherlock took it all in, tucked the vision of this time and place in his life into a box in his mind palace reserved for memories of First Big Things. John kissing him at the quarry, John spread before him in the back of the station wagon, Sherlock telling John he loved him in John’s garage, the red Ford pickup truck behind them.

“Come here, you.” John held out a hand and wriggled his fingers.

Sherlock went.

He laid down on his side, John tucked up close behind him and propped up on one elbow.

“Thank you, tiger.”

“For what? The tree?”

“For the tree. For setting the scene. We’ve had years of shared Christmases, but this is our first one living together.”

“First of many.”

“First of many,” Sherlock echoed.

“I’m glad you liked the tree.”

“I love the tree. Your star’s a bit shit, though.”

“You love that star,” John said close to Sherlock’s ear, his breath stirring curls.

“I do. That’s the only tree-topper we’ll ever need.”

Sherlock felt John’s hand settle on his hip, slide up his waist, come around to his chest. He felt John press a kiss to the back of his head.

“I didn’t realize this would be so important to you,” John whispered.

“Me neither. I opened the door and saw you there with that tree, and then I saw all those other years, the ones with my parents and the ones without them, none of which I had any influence on, and now we have this chance to make our own traditions, and I want them to be perfect.”

“It can’t be perfect, love. You know that.”

“I know. I’m sorry I got a bit uptight about it. I know it’ll change over the years. We won’t be in this apartment for long. New places, who knows where, different cities, different rooms, different trees.”

“But you and me, always. That’s what’s at the center of our Christmases together, Sherlock. Not the tree.”

“I know. But with intention, okay? Always with the intention of building our own traditions.”

“Okay.” John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head again, nuzzled into his curls. “With intention.”

They laid still for a while, watching the blinking lights play across the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

“You look gorgeous in this light,” John said, trailing his fingers up and down Sherlock’s arm. “The way your hair shines and picks up the colors, the way they look on your skin, like you’re being painted. See there?”

Sherlock rolled onto his back and pushed the blankets down and John chased flashes of light under his fingers, working his way down Sherlock’s body. “There, see? Green, blue, yellow, red, blue, green, red.” His fingers reached the waistband of Sherlock’s jocks and teased underneath. “Let’s take these off and see how the lights look on the rest of you,” John whispered.

Sherlock shivered with arousal, anticipation flooding through him. He reached up and wrapped his hand around the nape of John’s neck, pulled John down as he lifted up, meeting John half-way in an open-mouthed kiss. There was a flurry of wriggling out of underwear and pulling John’s shirt off, then John was on top of him, pressing down, covering him.

Sherlock loved this, loved how instantly they ignited for each other, how a scene of domestic companionship so quickly turned into adrenaline and lust. He was already panting, already reaching for John’s bare ass, rutting, licking up John’s neck.

“Oh, God,” John sighed. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Together, then.”

John rose up on straightened arms, stared down at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared back, licked his lips, let John look. John’s gaze traveled over Sherlock’s crazy cloud of black hair, over his parted lips, down his neck to his peaked nipples, down, down, down to his erection.

Sherlock spread his legs.

“God, Sherlock.”

Sherlock held on to John’s shoulders as John reached down with one hand, took Sherlock in hand, stroked. John watched Sherlock’s face as he worked him, watched his eyelids fall heavy, his tongue dart out to wet his lips, his expression slip from eager to heady to desperate.

“Feel good?” John murmured. He lowered himself down to one elbow and licked into Sherlock’s mouth, flicking his tongue in time with his hand.

Sherlock tensed, thrust. “So good. Don’t stop.”

“Not yet, babe. Not yet.” John crawled down Sherlock’s body, settled between his thighs, blew a soft breath over his balls and cock. “You’re so beautiful. Look at you. Look at the lights on you.”

Sherlock looked down, saw the bursts of color on his abdomen, his hips, in his pubic hair and along his shaft. The lights blinked and changed, came back in new places, new patterns. John, though, John was his constant, and now his shoulders were pressing into Sherlock’s inner thighs, his hair falling into his eyes as he looked up at Sherlock. There was definitely intention in that gaze.

John lowered his head and pressed a soft kiss to the vein throbbing up the length of Sherlock’s cock, then another, and another, finally kissing the weeping tip before pressing his lips in a slow slide over the head.

Sherlock let his eyes fall shut. He didn’t need to watch to see the way John’s jaw flexed, the way his cheeks hollowed, the way John’s tongue licked around him, pressed against him, flicked, sucked. He was well aware of how the tendons in John’s neck flexed as he bobbed up and down. Sherlock felt the slow coalescing, the tightening, a quiver.

“John,” Sherlock panted. “Wait, tiger. Wait. Not yet.”

“Hm?” John popped off, wiped his chin on his forearm, kissed the tip again.

“Come here.”

John settled at Sherlock’s side and Sherlock turned to face him. He wrapped one long leg over John’s hip, tugged at his short hair, kissed under the sharp angle of John’s jaw, down his neck, back up to his mouth. John’s cock was pressed hard into Sherlock’s belly, rubbing against him with the rut of his hips.

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked.

John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck, ran his hands down Sherlock’s back, cupped his ass. “I want to watch you come.”

Sherlock slid down and took John in his mouth, getting him good and wet before going back to his side, then aligned their bodies and took them both in hand. John added his hand above Sherlock’s, creating a tunnel that enclosed them. Fists bumped as they found their rhythm, biceps flexing with the short, jerking movements, chests heaving. They kissed, open mouths seeking each other, losing control, breaths coming faster.

Sherlock was already so close and John knew him so well, knew exactly how to stroke, how fast, how hard. He pressed his forehead to John’s and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“That’s it,” John crooned. “That’s it, gorgeous. Let me see it, let me see how much you love it.”

Sherlock arched his neck, tilted his head back, gasped. He felt John’s thighs tense against his, felt him take and hold a breath.

“John,” Sherlock panted, “yes.” Sherlock pulled into himself, taut muscles trembling, dug his toes into the futon. “Yes, John, yes.” He felt John’s thumb flick over his sensitive head, felt him press into the slit, and he threw his head back with a bit off scream, the world screeching to a halt around him. He shuddered one last time and came, hard.

“Oh, fuck, that’s so hot,” John whined next to him, scrambling up and over as Sherlock’s hand fell away, jerking himself hard and fast over Sherlock’s stomach.

“John, let me.” Sherlock reached between them but John’s grip was tight, his hand flying, not letting go.

“I’m already, I’m …”

Sherlock reached down again and palmed John’s balls, rolled and tugged them, and John was done.

“Oh fuck, here it comes.” John’s hand slowed as he spilled onto Sherlock, only stopping after the last bit dribbled out, then he collapsed down onto Sherlock, burying his face against his neck as he took slow, deep breaths. Sherlock held him close as the aftershocks moved through him.

Later, cleaned up and nestled against the pillows and covered with the quilt and extra blanket, Sherlock laid his head on John’s chest and looked up at the tree.

“That’s the best star I’ve ever seen,” John said, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock chuckled. “I’m glad you’re impressed with yourself and your handiwork, John.”

“I’m very impressed with myself. I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

“You certainly do.”

Beyond their cocoon, beyond the tree, beyond the windows of the small sunroom, the snow had stopped falling and the sky had cleared of clouds. A few bright stars created a halo around John and Sherlock’s first Christmas tree, blinking down at them from high, and Sherlock smiled, held John tight, and was thankful.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to happierstill for the great idea to have John surprise Sherlock with a Christmas tree!


End file.
